


The Sign

by tacroy



Series: unfinished Chrestomanci fic [2]
Category: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/F, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25798864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacroy/pseuds/tacroy
Summary: unfinished!Cat didn’t look a thing like Chrestomanci. She was short and her face still had baby fat in it even though she was nearly twenty-four. Chrestomanci was tall and dark and thin and had cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them and her clothes were always perfect and her shiny black hair was neat as a pin.“I don’t look a thing like her,” said Cat despairingly.“You don’t need to, because she’s not the one who’s Chrestomanci now,” said Klartch. “You are."
Relationships: Cat Chant/Tonino Montana
Series: unfinished Chrestomanci fic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871680
Kudos: 3





	The Sign

**Author's Note:**

> i actually wrote this back in January of 2012 and finally decided to post it unfinished. it's not exactly an excuse for the cissexism present here—this is a very traditional genderswap story—but perhaps it'll inform your reading. also, if you can tell, i wrote the entire damn thing on a transatlantic flight, which explains a lot of the airport anxiety.

Two months ago, when she was about to be officially been sworn in, Cat had told Klartch to stop bringing her the newspapers in the morning. “Well,” Cat had hedged, buttoning up her shirt, “you can still bring in the  _ Guardian _ , but if you show up with any tabloids, I’ll… I’ll stop playing Klartchball!”   
  
“Is that really the worst threat you can come up with?” said Klartch, propping her beak on a claw. They were cloistered in a bedroom that had been made up into a dressing room in Chrestomanci Castle. Somebody had considerately put a specific noise-cancelling spell around the walls so that the crowd—which was quite large—could not be heard, but so that Cat could still hear her cue to come out for the ceremony.   
  
“No,” said Cat, glaring. “But I’m busy right now! Come back later and I’ll have a better threat.” Her semi-angry expression drooped. “Oh, Klartch. I look terrible.”   
  
“I’m sure you don’t,” Klartch said gently. She got off the divan she was sprawled across and waddled over to Cat. Klartch modified her size when she was inside, so at the moment she only came up to Cat’s shoulder. “I think you look wonderful!”   
  
“You have no idea,” Cat sighed, tugging at her sleeves. “I don’t look anything like Chrestomanci. Every reporter in the Related Worlds is going to be there and I’m just going to look like a little girl!”   
  
“Cat,” said Klartch. Her beaky voice was serious. Cat looked down at her. “Cat, you do look like Chrestomanci.”   
  
Cat looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look a thing like Chrestomanci. She was short and her face still had baby fat in it even though she was nearly twenty-four. Add her big, innocent eyes and nobody would take her seriously as an adult. And her dress suit fit all wrong and she was too chubby in some places and too skinny in others and her blonde hair wavered indistinctly between straight and curly. Cat was the opposite of Chrestomanci, who was tall and dark and thin and who had cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them and whose clothes were always perfect and whose shiny black hair was neat as a pin.    
  
“I don’t look a thing like her,” said Cat despairingly.    
  
“You don’t need to, because she’s not the one who’s Chrestomanci now,” said Klartch. “You are, Cat.”   
  
Cat opened her mouth to respond, but a woosh of magic filled the room and the noise of the loudest trumpet ever sounded made Cat and Klartch go temporarily deaf. It was like being hit over the head with a giant’s tuba and then being shouted at by every football coach that had ever lived.   
  
“I THINK THAT’S YOUR SIGN,” Klartch yelled, although she couldn’t hear herself. Cat took one last look at herself in the mirror, patted her bun, kissed Klartch on the head, tried to walk out of the dressing room, and ran into the door.   
  
Off to a great start, Klartch thought, and bent down to help Cat up.   
  
=   
  
The investment of a new Chrestomanci was a rather important occasion. Gabriella de Witt had held the post for so long that when Christine Chant was finally discovered, the media, which was not nearly as obsessive as it was now, had an absolute field day. But Christine Chant’s installation as Chrestomanci was nothing—simply nothing—compared to this.   
  
Every nation in Twelve A, plus a truly impressive contingent from the rest of the Related Worlds, had sent a representative. Even Eleven had passed on a message of (highly bitter) congratulations. The representatives covered the entire front lawn of the Castle. The reporters had taken to sitting on the curtain wall. The gardeners had been reduced to tears at the state of the shrubbery.   
  
So the deafening trumpet call had actually been necessary and not just overkill. Cat, when she finally made it out of the dressing room, out of the Castle, and into the staging area, worried slightly that it had not been loud enough. Thousands of people whispering was still quite noisy.   
  
The staging area was around the west side of the Castle, hidden from the crowd behind a tallish orange orchard. Government workers ran back and forth miraculously not falling over cords and spells lying strewn about, and the occasional Castle worker stomped by, looking frustrated. Cat edged along the wall, Klartch right behind her, hoping someone would notice her soon and tell her where to—   
  
“Cat, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere—your introduction is about to start.”   
  
Mil, lacking his usual contingent of panicked-looking government liaisons, appeared, smiling as usual. Cat just knew Mil was stressed out by all of this—considering it was his wife who was retiring, after all—but he never looked it. Today, Mil was wearing a plain, nice brown suit and somehow looking frumpier and sweeter than ever. “How are you feeling, dear?” he asked Cat kindly, putting his big hand on her shoulder.   
  
“Oh, you know,” Cat said nervously, “trying not throw up.”   
  
Mil promptly draped an anti-nausea spell around Cat’s neck and led her gently over to a quieter part of the staging area. “You’re going to be perfectly fine, dear,” he said, summoning a glass of water and handing it to Cat. “Now, remember: you’ll have a copy of your remarks and we’ll also be projecting them. And you’ve rehearsed the ceremony enough times, so you should be fine, but if you’re not, Christine will be there on stage to help you.”   
  
“Okay,” said Cat, “okay.” She tried to take deep breaths and drink the water at the same time and ended up coughing water all over herself. Mil dried her off with a wave of his hand.   
  
“I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” he said. “There’ll be another horn when we’re officially seating. Until then, try not to wander off. Have a program and sit down somewhere. And try not to worry too much, dear.” Mill patted her on the shoulder again and disappeared into the crowd.   
  
Cat let Klartch lead her over to a set of benches nobody was sitting on. Cat put the water down and opened the program, which was passport-red and gilt-edged. The title page read: The INVESTMENT of ERICA EMILIA CHANT as NINTH CHRESTOMANCI of the RELATED WORLD • 6 JUNE 2010.   
  
“Oh, god,” said Cat.    
  
Some merciful government warlock had put an abridgement charm on the program. It was necessary because every representative present at the ceremony was listed on pages six through thirty-nine. Cat flipped past that section hastily. There was a horrible biography of Cat that took up two facing pages and featured a full-color picture of Cat in her Oxford regalia. Cat moaned.   
  
“Klartch, did you see the biography?” she demanded. “They’re using all the wrong adjectives, I’m not—”   
  
“Did you read the order of events all the way through?” Klartch said carefully.    
  
That had been back on pages 2 through 5. “No…” said Cat, flipping back through the program. “Why?”   
  
Klartch shrugged, ruffling her wings. “I just thought you should.”   
  
Cat ran her finger down the page as she read. Music by Chopin… Introductory remarks by Prime Minster… Remarks by Milton Chant… Remarks by Marduka Roberts… Introduction of Erica Chant by Tonina Montana… Remarks—wait—   
  
Cat let out a very small scream. Klartch, grinning as much as a griffin could, clapped her beak, which was apparently a signal of some sort, and Nina appeared in front of Cat.   
  
Cat shrieked. “Nina!” She flung herself off of the bench and wrapped her arms around Nina, who, laughing, hugged her back. Klartch was making her funny laughing noise as well. Cat hadn’t realized how anxious she was. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Nina’s warm shoulder. Her stomach calmed and her coldness became warmth. She felt solid again.   
  
“I thought you weren’t coming!” Cat gasped, pulling away and grabbing Nina’s hands. Nina laughed again, throwing her head back. Age had changed Nina more than it had changed Cat. She was no longer a timid, vulnerable preteen. Nina was tall, about six inches taller than Cat, with straight gray-blonde hair that hung past her elbows. Nina never wore makeup, but apparently someone had cornered her and done her face, and her huge eyes—which still made her look vulnerable and helpless—were now smoky.   
  
“You look beautiful,” Cat said, staring. Nina went red immediately and wrenched her hands out of Cat’s to wave them dismissively. “No, really!” said Cat. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in eyeliner before.”   
  
“And you never will again,” said Nina firmly. “Now, let’s get you  _ truly _ prepared for the circus.”   
  


=

Apparently, the tabloids had started doing side-by-side comparisons.

“Oh dear,” said Cat, very quietly. She put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh dear.”

There was thunder on the stairs and Jan bounded into the sitting room, bouncingly boyish in tennis whites. “Good morning, Cat!” he cried, swooping over to the table and shoving a few sausage links into his mouth before pouring himself a cup of tea. “What’s the damage this morning, then?”

Cat promptly vanished the tabloids. “Oh, I’m not sure,” she said, smiling sincerely at Jan. “I haven’t gotten them yet.”

“What, Egbert hasn’t been up?” said Jan, bouncing over to the door to the sitting room. “Shall I—”

“Oh no, please don’t bother,” said Cat, wringing her hands. She got up and gathered her papers from the coffee table. “I should be going—must drop by the Castle before my flight.”

“Text me when you get to Caprona, then,” said Jan. He leaned back on an armchair and whipped out his phone. Cat watched him as she packed her briefcase. She envied him rather. Difficulties though he had initially had with twenty-first century nightshirts, Jan ended up adapting to Twelve-B life quite well. He had Gwyn’s face, of course, but his golden hair was still a little longer than Cat thought Gwyn’s would be, and his blue eyes were kind. He had a nice tan from being outdoors and quite a few of the women in the office had mentioned coyly that he must have been working out. It didn’t occur to Cat to notice these things for a rather large number of reasons, but now that the tabloids were being—well, the way they were—Cat wished she had her brother’s confidence, charms, and looks.

There was a gilded mirror over the table that Cat glanced into. She grimaced. Unlike Jan’s perfect curly hair, Cat’s was plain and straight, golden though it was. At the moment she had it tied back in a businesslike ponytail. Cat’s big blue eyes weren’t as charming as Jan’s. She looked afraid if she opened them too wide and stupid if she lowered her lids. She was short and a little pudgy, with no muscles to speak of and a boring figure—not too small, not too large. Plain. She frowned at herself for a moment. She knew she was not ugly—thankfully she had finished that phase in college—but she was certainly nothing like the last Chrestomanci, which was what everyone expected her to be.

She had just snapped her briefcase shut when Jan let out a huge laugh and said, “I say, Cat—look what the  _ Daily Mail’ _ s doing,” and held up his mobile. “You and I, side by side.”

Cat groaned. “I’ve already seen, Jan.” She summoned the papers back with a wave of her hand. Jan blinked as they popped into existence next to his feet. 

=

"Excuse me!" Cat called, brandishing a bright orange pass and trying very hard to fight through the masses clambering around the Border Control zone without injuring anyone. "Excuse me! Oh, so sorry—excuse me!" A Border Control agent moved to let Cat into the express lane. "Thanks so much!" Cat gushed to him, rushing by, and promptly tripped into a stodgy woman in a mustard-yellow overcoat in the next line over. "Oh! I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry don't—" the woman started to snap, but she caught sight of Cat's face. "Oh! Excuse  _ me _ , Chrestomanci!"

"Oh, er, right," muttered Cat, hurrying on and hating the British tabloids deeply. A murmur swept up the line to the right and Cat felt the gazes of hundreds of faces. "Hell," Cat muttered, pulling up the brim of her coat. She couldn't go as fast as she would have liked, as Jan had convinced her to wear a pair of really awful bright red heels.

"You're Chrestomanci now—you've got to look the part," Jan had explained kindly. "Reg told me these were in vogue. Put them on, go on! You know they'll be paparazzi outside."

"Bother the paparazzi," Cat had said. It was bad enough she has to give  _ interviews _ ; what was this sudden shocking obsession with every detail of her personal life all about?

"You complained for a week when they took those photos of you in your pajamas," Jan reminded her. "Go on! They're Jenny Clue or something."

"Jimmy Choo," sighed Cat, accepting the shoes resignedly. "This is only because I love you."

"And because I'm right about the pajama photos."

Cat glared at him. "And because you're right about the pajama photos. Now go... get me my briefcase or something."

Jan grinned, his bright boyish face lighting up instantly. "Your wish," he laughed, and vaulted athletically over a plush couch and into Cat's office.

That had been three hours ago, before Cat was this close to missing her connection to Caprona. "Excuse me!" she called again, sliding around a waxed corner. This would all be simpler if magic were allowed in airports or if international-portaling was less complicated. As Chrestomanci, Cat was quite allowed to transport anywhere in the world--or out of it--as long as it was an emergency. Sadly, nothing about the situation constituted an emergency.

Tonina's sister Paula was getting married. Nina was the maid of honor and Paula, who had taking a slightly alarming liking to Cat after Cat had saved her sister from a really evil time-traveling enchantress when they were both children, had considerately invited Cat. New Chrestomanci though she was, Cat could hardly pass up a visit to Caprona. British business would have to wait a weekend. After all, Cat hadn't had any time off since she had officially become Chrestomanci two months ago, not even a Sunday morning for services.

A light went off in her face. Cat very nearly cursed whoever it was. Paparazzi! Inside the airport! Unheard of! There was a crowd of them to her left, advancing with yells. Nothing for it. She'd never catch the flight at this rate. Cat whipped off her heels, stuck them in her big purse, and ran for it.

Cat was not naturally athletic. She was nothing like Jan, who had nearly played for England in cricket and who could bounce a football on his knee for hours. Cat took more after Jules and Reg. She was sedate. She loved horseback riding and was quite good at darts. But that was about it.

Her other hatred was publicity. She had no doubt that the paparazzi probably preferred shots of her running from them. She was also sure the Minister was going to lecture her again about how a Proper Chrestomanci was supposed to behave. But Cat was quite sure that every Chrestomanci bought her own panache to the job, and Cat's own panache was a distinct lack of it. So there. Let the Minister lecture, let the photographers chase, and let her get to Caprona on time.

There was a bit of good luck waiting for her at the bottom of an escalator. Cat shot onto the last train leaving Terminal C right ahead of the paparazzi. The passengers stared at her. Cat stared right back at them. She didn't think her lungs were working any longer and her legs had seized up. She leant against the train wall and watched the paparazzi whoosh away with enormous, exhausted satisfaction. Then a voice next to her said, "It's  _ not _ Cat Chant!"

Cat nearly jumped out of her skin. She didn't know why, really—people were bound to recognize her—but this voice was familiar. She turned fearfully. A crop of bright red hair towered above her. A handsome-faced, muscular man was hovering above her, grinning.

"Mr. Larkin?" said Cat disbelievingly. "The clairvoyant?" Out of the frying pan, into the fire! Cat thought ruefully, staring up at Mr. Larkin's flaming red hair.

"What are you doing in Paris, young Chant?" Mr. Larkin demanded jovially, grabbing Cat with that horribly familiar iron grip. "Don't you know the Chrestomanci handles British magic!"

Cat was tempted to tell him that this wasn't at all true, but she thought that fewer words were best in situations like this. "Er," she said. "I'm not on business."

"Skiving!" cried Mr. Larkin. "How awful! I love it. It's wonderful to see you, young Chant—let me tell your fortune!"

"Oh, no, no, I've really—" Cat tried to wiggle away. She felt like a small girl again, cornered horribly in Mr. Larkin's shop. The same as last time, she couldn't get away. It was awful. Mr. Larkin's face went blank and his mouth opened. The passengers stared some more.

"Ooh, haven't seen you in a while!" said a deep voice that Cat didn't recognize. At least she knew it wasn't Chrestomanci this time, but other than that, she had no idea who it could be. "Listen, I'll be seeing you quite soon—business in Twelve A, you know. I'm really quite important now! But you should keep a lookout at the World Edge. Seals are coming undone, I'm afraid to say."

That seemed to be it. Mr. Larkin's face went funny. His grip loosened just as the train put on its brakes. They both reached for a handhold, and Cat quickly got out of grabbing range.

"Well, what'd I say this time?" said Mr. Larkin cheerfully. "I know it's none of my regular voices with you, young Chant! Go on, what'd they say?"

Cat repeated the message dully. The train was coming to a halt. "Hm," said Mr. Larkin, stroking his neat ginger beard. "Hm." The passengers wobbled a bit as the train stopped fully. "Let me know when you figure it out, young Chant. Nice to see you again!"

The doors slid open. Cat made a run for it. "And you!" she called over her shoulder. Mr. Larkin waved cheerfully at her and was soon out of sight between crowds of people.

Without quite knowing how, Cat staggered up to the gate with two minutes to spare. She leaned, haggard, against the booth as the gate worker peered at her passport and boarding pass. "Sorry we schedule these connections so tight, Chrestomanci," the gate worker said apologetically. "You're right in time, but we would have held the flight for  _ you _ !"

Cat said "thanks" breathlessly and oozed down the walkway to the plane. She could not help perking up slightly when she saw the flight attendant, a really gorgeous South American woman who very kindly served her a cup of hot, sweet tea before they had even taken off. Cat asked her name—it was Martina. They had a chat round the corner of the cabin during takeoff.

Because everyone had assumed that Cat would be uneasy with the opposite sex, she was. Men, especially attractive men, and especially attractive men who were interested in her—and there were a distressingly large number of these—made her nervous. The tabloids had commented endlessly on it. "Chattering Cat," they called her. "Erica EEK!" Cruel party planners took pleasure in sitting her next to the most attractive men they could dig up and watching her squirm and spill soup and embarrass herself. The public ate it up. "A Chrestomanci who cannot communicate with an entire sex is not the type of press we want," the Minister had said sternly. "We simply cannot have headlines like this." He would hold up  _ The Sun _ or  _ The Daily Mail _ proclaiming "CAT CHRESTO CHOKES ON CAMBRIDGE CAD" or some horrid alliterative headline of the same sort.

The worst part about this was how very effective it all seemed. There had been no rumors, not even a hint, about the truth of the matter in the press, so obsessed were they with Cat's awkwardness with men. Cat couldn't tell if it was a blessing or a curse. Sometimes she felt really awful that she was fooling everyone. But most of the time she was simply massively relieved. It was hard enough being Chrestomanci. Surely being the first non-heterosexual Chrestomanci in four hundred years would be worse.

The flight was two hours. For the first hour, Cat distracted herself well enough by talking to Martina, who was delightfully down to earth and didn’t seem to realize who she was. But not even Martina could stop that horrid, sick feeling Cat got whenever she travelled by car or plane. Only magical transport held with her. By the time the flight was about to touch down in Caprona, Cat had her eyes tight shut and was faintly green.

"It's a real shame you don't allow magic," she managed to Martina, who came by with cold water and a little hand-held fan. "I've got the perfect cure for motion sickness." Nina was awful on trains. Cat had perfected a spell for her. It worked on Cat in cars, and she assumed it would work on planes, but she'd never had a chance to try it.

Martina, bless her, looked wretched. "I'm so sorry, Cat."

"I'll be fine when we land," Cat gulped.

Indeed, Cat felt human again as soon as the cabin door opened. Martina, it transpired, was switching flights in Caprona, so they disembarked together, chatting all the way into the terminal. Cat kissed Martina on the cheek at the security exit. "I had a wonderful flight, thanks to you," she said genuinely.

"I'm in town often. Call if you'd like to do something," said Martina. She tucked her card in Cat's purse. "I quite like the look of you, Chrestomanci."

Cat blinked at her in shock. Martina smiled and was gone.

Well, thought Cat, there's one person the tabloids had better not get their hands on.

Exiting security was one of the most wonderful things in the world. The anti-magic wards parted like veils to let travelers out, and Cat breathed magic back into her lungs. She pulled a ceremonial fire around the fingers of her left hand, as she always did when she left airports, and summoned her baggage rather than waiting for it.

The air of Caprona was even better. But Cat had barely sucked in a breath of it before she was hit by what felt like a very small bomb that squeezed all the oxygen out of her.

"Cat!" cried Nina. "Oh, Cat, it has been much too long!"

Cat gathered Nina in her arms and closed her eyes against the scent of basil and juniper that she knew so well.

=

And that was the worst part of Cat's life. That at the age of thirteen she had fallen completely in love with another girl, and that now, in her late twenties, she had watched that girl become a woman, go through a string of boyfriends, and finally become the Italian ambassador to Britain and a thoroughly accomplished sorceress. That now Cat was holding her in her arms and breathing her in, and that was all she could ever do.

She was vengefully glad that she had Martina’s number burning in her purse.

They walked to the car Nina had waiting. "Is being Chrestomanci as awful as you make it in emails?" Nina demanded, hanging on to Cat's hand. Her pale blonde hair fell around her face in perfect waves that she hadn't even charmed. It was naturally like that, for Christ's sake.


End file.
